


Queen's Orders

by softestpunk



Category: Thronebreaker: The Witcher Tales, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, enemies is probably too dramatic a word, enemies to frottage, more like grudging colleagues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 14:53:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16477655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpunk/pseuds/softestpunk
Summary: Spoiler warningfor Thronebreaker, if you don't recognise these character names, turn back now (or don't, I'm not the boss of you). Specifically, this will slightly spoil the end of the first chapter if you haven't gotten that far."I'd prefer it if my commanders worked together more closely."- Meve to ReynardGascon's just following orders. (This is shameless PWP and I am not even sorry).





	Queen's Orders

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the fic no one asked for about characters you probably haven't met yet! Enjoy :)

“Ah, fancy meeting _you_ here!” Gascon enthused, appearing as a spectre in the low light of the torches being used to illuminate their small--but growing--camp for the evening.

“This is my tent,” Reynard said.

Gascon, maddeningly, glanced over at the royal tent with a raised eyebrow. “Not bunking in with her majesty, then? Y’know…”

His smile turned wolfish. “For warmth,” he finished, his voice all too knowing for Reynard’s comfort.

“No,” Reynard said, though he had seriously considered bedding down for the night with what was left of the Lyrian forces in the interest of not freezing to death. The cold in Mahakam was bitter, unlike anything he’d experienced before in all his travels and all his years.

Gascon hummed thoughtfully.

“Was there something you wanted?” Reynard asked, weary and eager to lay his head down for a few hours.

“Overheard the queen’s orders. She wants us to be closer.” He grinned.

“To _work_ more closely,” Reynard corrected, though he couldn't quite summon the necessary bite.

Gascon had proven a useful ally, surprisingly competent commander, and even a challenging gwent opponent.

His bravado and theatre notwithstanding, there were depths to the man that Reynard’s curiosity had been left unsatisfied by.

“Cold out,” Gascon said, apparently changing the subject.

“Yes,” Reynard responded, testy. “On account of all the snow, I’d wager.”

Gascon smiled another wolfish smile, this one directed wholly toward Reynard himself. “Could be, could be,” he agreed, looking around at the pristine white blanket covering all of the ground and the tops of the tents.

They weren’t made for snow--not snow like this, in any case--but Reynard was convinced they’d hold. Like everything else, they’d have to.

“Come on, then,” Gascon said, drawing Reynard’s attention back to him.

As he ducked into the tent without so much as pausing for an invitation.

Reynard huffed, following him inside and ensuring the flap was properly closed, tightened muscles relaxing the barest touch now that the air was very slightly above freezing.

“You ought not to wear the breastplate in these conditions,” Gascon said. “Doesn’t do anything to keep you warm.”

“But it _does_ do a great deal to stop a crossbow bolt taking me by surprise,” Reynard replied. “You are yet to tell me what you _want_.”

“Might be faster to show you,” Gascon murmured.

As soon as Reynard looked up at him, the other man swooped in, hot mouth crashing into Reynard’s own, a sudden burst of warmth in an otherwise frozen world.

Reynard kept every muscle still, fighting not to give anything away. Fighting not to give in to the sudden inferno in his belly, need like dry grass in summer, the whole field in flames at the barest spark.

It had been so, _so_ long.

And Gascon was a brigand and a scoundrel and absolutely not to be trusted, but he was warm, and apparently willing, and Reynard…

Reynard was weak. Weak in this way, weak right now.

“No objection,” Gascon said, and Reynard didn't even have to look at him to know he was smirking.

Panic that this was a trap welled up in his chest, worry that Gascon would now try to blackmail him making his stomach go cold.

“Interesting,” Gascon murmured. “My, my, Reynard. Hidden depths to the royal lapdog.”

Reynard growled, pushing Gascon away from him.

The other man took the shove gracefully, stepping back to give Reynard some much-needed space.

“I can take no for an answer, darling,” he said. “No need for violence.”

Reynard narrowed his eyes, considering.

“This is not a trap?” he asked. “No scheme to embarrass me in front of… in front of…”

“Her royal loveliness? Absolutely not. I can see the way you look at her. Whole bloody army can see the way you look at her.” Gascon smiled wryly. “But since you're about to bunk down alone… thought I’d offer a little mutual warmth and comfort.”

“Why?” Reynard asked, his suspicions not entirely eased.

Gascon shrugged. “Haven't passed a brothel the whole time we've been on this little adventure. Bored out of my skull. My men snore. You're not bad looking in the right light. Take your pick.”

Despite his misgivings, a tendril of curiosity was curling its way around Reynard’s belly.

It wouldn't have been the first time he’d offered a friendly hand to another soldier. Gascon may not have quite been a soldier, but…

Meve _had_ insisted that they work more closely together.

This was, Reynard could almost guarantee, not what she meant.

But it would suffice. A kind of trust, at least. Not perfect, but better and more useful than nothing.

And there was still that spark of curiosity to contend with. Now that the idea had been planted in his head, Reynard knew that he would not soon forget it.

Which, when he needed to be focused on other things, was a hazard.

Better to get it out of his system than let it fester.

“You start thinkin’ any harder, your hair’s gonna catch fire,” Gascon said. “All I need is a simple yes or no. Go or stay.”

Reynard glanced between the tent flap, his bedroll, and Gascon.

“Stay,” he said, before he could lose his nerve.

Gascon’s entire face lit up, a broad grin spreading across his features. “You can even call me _your majesty_ , if you want. Shan’t complain,” he said.

Part of Reynard immediately regretted his decision. Part of him was too exhausted in every possible way to argue.

Part of him was tempted by the offer, though he had no intention of confessing this.

“Or not,” Gascon added. “Gods, you need this so much more than I do.”

He surged forward again, seizing Reynard’s lips for the second time. Soldiers offering each other a friendly hand to ease the tension before a battle didn't _kiss_. There was no affection in it, and while it was strange to think of Gascon as affectionate, this was undeniably a little more than convenient.

“S’pose you don't want to take this off,” Gascon rapped one knuckle on the centre of Reynard’s breastplate. “Bet you sleep in it an’ all.”

“I do,” Reynard said, which he’d imagined was obvious. While they were out here, under constant threat of attack, he needed to be battle-ready in an instant. Nilfgaard would not wait for him to dress.

Gascon sighed, rolling his eyes. “Tell you what: let me take it off, and I promise to help you put it right back on after.”

Looking down at his armoured chest, Reynard realised he had little choice if he wanted to go down this path.

He nodded, and had barely opened his mouth to offer verbal agreement before Gascon’s clever fingers were at the buckles holding his armour on, pulling it off as though this was the most exciting thing that’d ever happened to him.

Reynard didn't _understand_ , but he also didn't really mind.

The moment Gascon had freed him of his armour, he pushed Reynard down onto the bedroll he’d set down earlier, grateful that it'd been warmed with a hot pan just a few minutes beforehand.

Gascon straddled his hips, tugging at his lacings with an eager gleam in his eyes.

“Your interest lies in men,” Reynard said after a few moments, feeling as though he’d solved a particularly thorny puzzle.

Gascon only raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, aye?” he said. “And how did you come to that idea?”

Reynard glared at him, which only made the brigand’s eyes glitter with mirth.

In the right light, Gascon could have been a very handsome man.

“Solely with men?” Reynard asked, curious now.

“Ooh, wouldn't go that far,” Gascon said. “Normally first choice, though.”

Before Reynard could fully process that, Gascon licked a stripe up the palm of his own hand and pulled Reynard’s cock free from his breeches, giving it a firm tug that bordered on the painful.

Reynard hissed through his teeth, shock and pleasure pooling in his belly, tension already building there.

Not quite a friendly hand of mutual comfort in times of fear and need, but he found he wasn't opposed to the increased intimacy. He was not in the _habit_ of seeking it with other men, though neither was he repulsed by the idea.

Even despite the fact that he spent approximately half his time being frustrated with Gascon, and the other half admiring him.

Nothing about the last five minutes had even _begun_ to change that. Reynard doubted anything ever would.

“Not bad, Reynard,” Gascon commented, curling his fingers around the rapidly-hardening length of Reynard’s cock, thumbing the head with expert confidence. “And in the cold an’ all.”

Reynard hissed again as Gascon twisted his fingers, biting down on his lip to keep from crying out. The last thing he wanted was to draw anyone’s attention.

But nothing could have stopped him from watching with fascination as Gascon worked on his own laces, pushing his smallclothes aside with practiced ease, tongue held between his lips in concentration.

He shifted position, angling his hips so they curved into Reynard’s, bringing their cocks together with sure fingers. The delicious friction of velvet-soft skin against his own most sensitive parts forced Reynard to stifle a moan, a rush of lust flooding the pit of his stomach.

He reached out, tentative at first, his fingers alighting on Gascon’s fully-clothed knee. Gascon’s encouraging gasp made him grow bolder, trailing his fingers up the other man’s thigh, coming to where bare skin had been exposed at his hip when he’d shifted his clothes.

Stomach swooping, Reynard reached out and curled his hand around Gascon’s hip, taking in the soft hitch of his breath as Reynard’s sword-callused, rough fingers pressed into the delicate skin there. He drew circles with his thumb, a counterpoint to the lazy rhythm of Gascon stroking both of their cocks, the occasional jerk of his hips mirroring his usual unpredictability.

Reynard bit down on his fist to stifle any sounds, closing his eyes tightly as Gascon’s strokes sped up, as he leaned forward and brought their hips together, searing warmth between them a stark contrast to the biting cold outside.

Heart pounding in his ears, Reynard could feel the pressure of release building deep in his gut, overwhelming tension leaving him to squirm as Gascon worked his cock without pause. It’d been too long since he’d known a hand other than his own, enjoyed another person’s warmth, and that alone made it too easy to hurtle toward the edge at breakneck speed. Reynard’s hips rocked into Gascon’s touch, desperation taking the place of better judgement, of restraint, of anything except the need to come.

“That’s the way,” Gascon coaxed, his grip tightening, his pace ruthless. Even if Reynard had been inclined to deny him the satisfaction of having him teetering on the edge, he couldn’t have done it.

The white-hot flash of his orgasm hit with the force of a war hammer, right at the base of Reynard’s skull, searing a path down his spine and finally spilling out of his cock. A half-stifled gasp escaped him, but Gascon saved him from being hear by surging forward, sealing their mouths together again.

Reynard let himself enjoy the kiss, aftershocks rolling through him as Gascon moaned into his mouth, losing himself as well.

He stroked a few more times, right to the point of painful, and then collapsed on top of Reynard with a satisfied sigh.

For the first time, Reynard noticed that Gascon was significantly slighter than he’d imagined.

Or perhaps the strange comfort of his weight pressing on top of Reynard simply made it seem that way.

Gascon sighed hugely, letting Reynard take all of his weight at once--not, Reynard thought, a difficult feat. They were both still running hot, and Gascon’s warmth was welcome after days of being cold down to his bones.

“Not bad,” Gascon murmured, grabbing a blanket and pulling it over both of them. “Sleeping here,” he added, leaving no room for argument.

Despite a brief flash of worry that they might be caught, Reynard wasn't inclined to argue. He’d been too cold for too long.

Longer by far than they’d been in Mahakam.

It was nice, for once, to be warm.


End file.
